


It's Good To Be The King

by AxeMeAboutAxinomancy



Series: Lions [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Developing Relationship, Humor, Lions, M/M, Podfic Available
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 15:41:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1352845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy/pseuds/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which it occurs to Sherlock to ask John what he'd like.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Good To Be The King

"Oh my God, _he's_ back," said Linda in a joyously horrified whisper. "Andrew! Look," and she joggled his arm just as he was lifting up his sandwich, which collapsed.

"Oh," said Andrew.

It had been a lovely sandwich, a really lovely one today that his mum had made him. But now it lay strewn into its component parts across the creased wax paper, and it wasn't a sandwich anymore.

"Who's that?" asked Joe from Small Mammals.

"The Dark Lord of Inappropriate Questions," said Linda. "Heading straight for you know where. - Go get him, Andrew."

Andrew was blushing and reluctant, but he couldn't take his eyes off that tall dark stranger, and anyway his lovely sandwich was a lost cause, a trampled battlefield.

He could hear them talking about it behind him as he moved away from the employees' outdoor lunch area and towards the path that went past the fountain. Not about the sandwich. About the man.

Joe was asking, "What sort of inappropriate...?"

"Oh don't even ask me. I only just managed to forget about it. They ought to make bleach for the brain! _Some people..._ "

Andrew's steps sped up in an effort to keep the man in the long black coat in sight. It was fortunate that there were no school trips right now, but still. It was all Andrew could do to keep up with those long legs, though it was almost impossible to lose sight of him. He did draw the eye.

And he most assuredly _was_ going you know where. To the lion enclosure.

Andrew was surprised - and worried, sharply worried - that there had not been more security hired on for this, the mating season. Now it was down to him. Andrew was not the most imposing of security guards, of zoo employees, or indeed of men. He was tallish, that was about it. He kept his hat pulled down so that the brim shaded his perpetually anxious expression.

Of course, apart from the fact that he had returned after being asked to leave before, the tall dark-haired man wasn't actually doing anything _wrong_ now. He was looking at the lions, yes, but that wasn't actually - there wasn't anything illegal about that. People came to look at the monkeys when they... you know... and that wasn't illegal, not unless you were inclined to try to join them.

Andrew hadn't seen that happen yet, but you never knew. The prurient emergencies Andrew had so far been called upon to deal with had usually been in the restrooms. Or off the path amongst the trees behind the penguin area. They'd been strictly inter-human sorts of things. And those people had scampered off without Andrew's having to do so much as clear his throat.

Andrew's steps slowed as he neared the tall dark man in the long black coat. If the man was violent, or even unpleasant to him, there was little Andrew could do but call for backup, and Linda had already told him to deal with it. So he cleared his throat and said, "Sir" - his voice broke into the most ridiculous treble - but before he could even repeat the word the man had started talking, his pale eyes fixed all the while on Sheba the lioness as she paced around trying to interest the lion. Andrew couldn't remember what the lion's name was, it was somewhere on the sign near the front viewing area, but he couldn't see it at this angle. Whatever his name was, he was tired. He was having trouble working up interest in doing it for the fiftieth or sixtieth time today.

And then the man spoke to Andrew.

"Do any of the animals here engage in homosexual behaviour?" said the man, but he didn't wait for Andrew to answer. His voice was lovely and low and smooth as it spoke clinically of lovely filthy things, and it had that effect on Andrew where it made tingles go all the way down his back to his tailbone.

(Andrew _could_ actually have answered that the penguins sometimes went that way, and the bonobos probably didn't even care what sort of animal they were with or if it were even an animal - seriously, any friction would - But he was getting distracted again.)

"Do any animals engage in genital stimulation for non-reproductive purposes? May I observe them? I would like to record the mating call of the dominant orangutan."

Andrew thought, _Does he know? Can he possibly know?_ His palms were sweating. His socks felt as though they were filled with hot water.

Then he realised the man was looking at him, waiting for some reply. Andrew wondered if there were some code word, some magic phrase that would make it okay to say _I know what you want, I want that too, I've got this lovely costume -_

But all he could say was, "I'm - not sure what you're asking me, sir." There, that was the safe course. "I'm, I'm a security guard." Not a zookeeper, he meant.

The man made an impatient sort of huffing noise and pointed at the lioness.

"Does she look satisfied to you?"

Andrew turned his head to look. No, the lioness did not look satisfied. Heat made her initiate sex with the lion over and over and she didn't have a good time of it. Privately Andrew felt that you didn't get gay lions because you couldn't make a lion put up with another lion's horrible barbed penis.

But also of course, the lionesses would get what they wanted, even if they didn't enjoy it. _They_ had biology on their side.

"She looks frustrated to me," Andrew heard himself saying. "She hasn't got any choices but that same knackered old lion. And then, poor old thing, what about him? Suppose he wanted, I don't know, just a different position or something, but there's Nature telling them what to do and how to do it."

An uncommonly long speech for Andrew. But he didn't sound like he was babbling either. Not quite.

The man's eyebrows shifted around a bit, a quizzical wrinkle forming between them.

"She, er... looks embarrassed too, the way you're staring at her." Andrew was talking about himself, now, feeling his face flush, his heart pounding. He was flirting! He actually was! "But maybe she likes it."

The man turned his attention back to the lions, who were at it again, and then back to Andrew. His eyes were like a searchlight. They made Andrew shiver. Oh yes the man was gorgeous, utterly _gorgeous_ , and his voice thrilled Andrew's knees to jelly, and he smelled very _very_ good. But there was something scary about his air of authority too, a bit BDSM maybe, really controlling. And what had that been about the call of the _dominant_ orangutan? Hint of panic. Maybe Andrew was getting in over his head! He just wanted to be somebody's little puppy! This man wanted a lion.

"You've been helpful."

Andrew blinked. The man turned on his heel and strode to the exit, coat flapping dramatically, propelled by purpose like seven league boots.

What just _happened?_

He was praised by Linda for accomplishing his mission, and she even bought him another sandwich, but he never did figure it out. The lions continued mating for another half a day, poor things, but though he surfaced from time to time in Andrew's more thrilling and erotic dreams, the man in the long black coat did not make another appearance at the zoo.

***

John opened his eyes and his very first thought of the day was: _I have had oral sex with Sherlock._

And yet nothing was different. Nothing but that, just that.

Nothing but absolutely everything.

Sherlock had pursued him, loudly demanding John's attention in his own ludicrous, sideways, profoundly-stupid-genius way, and of _course_ it had worked. They were lovers now. Really. Him. And _Sherlock_.

It was still in the process of blowing John's mind.

Sherlock's bed was big and comfortable. John found he was alone in it. What time - ? Jesus, after noon. He should feel - groggy, guilty. Sleeping the morning away.

He didn't though. He felt _brilliant_. He stretched luxuriously.

Couldn't hear Sherlock in the flat, but that didn't mean anything: he might be reading online, or gazing at things through his microscope… John would get up in a moment, put his dressing gown on and go out and see him and Sherlock would look up, and _smile_ at John…

John turned his hot face into the pillow, fighting the spread of the stupid grin and failing completely. So! Embarrassing! _Christ_.

John might not have had a Mind Palace, but whatever sort of humbler structure - maybe a Cabin? - existed in his brain, it contained priceless treasures, unique works of art. The _Sherlock Collection_ in his mind's eye now included some newly amazing pictures that belonged to John and John alone.

New smiles, yes, like the one he had just been envisioning, sweet and potent enough to embarrass John into the depths of his pillow - but more than this…

Sherlock rising up out of his bath, standing there dripping and naked and flawless. Staring expectantly at John. Knowing, damn well _knowing_ his own beauty and watching the power of it hit John like a shock wave.

Sherlock's rumpled head emerging from the towel, damp curls rioting, face foolish and a bit pink, looking so absurdly, heart-wrenchingly _young_.

Sherlock lying naked across this very bed, staring at John, deducing him, daring him with his expression to _come here now._

Sherlock crouching between John's legs, and the look of blissful concentration on his face as he took John's aching cock into the heat of his perfect mouth.

And oh, he was good at it too. Simply brilliant. Oral fixation. **Brilliant**. He needed to be told. He needed to be praised. Oh God he needed to be here right now, because John was hard again thinking about him.

Even the most embarrassing picture had heat in it. Extreme closeup of someone else's big erect penis and then the further sense memory of how it felt and tasted against John's tongue, against his lips. So. Fucking. _Embarrassing_. But… _hot_. Because linked with it was the glorious sight of meeting Sherlock's eyes as Sherlock looked down, staring in amazement, watching, gasping in pleasure, gasping John's name, watching John go down on him.

John, overheated, had to emerge from the pillow for air. By now he suspected that Sherlock was not in the flat at all, else he would already have been here in the room, gloating over the continued effects of himself on John.

And making requests/demands that John was still not quite sure about.

_You don't have to be the lioness,_

Sherlock had said that day.

At the time that had sounded reassuring, but now… Now John didn't know. Hard to think clearly, like this, turned on and literally surrounded by Sherlock's scent. Time to get up, long since. Time to collect that smile, if Sherlock was in, and a shower if not.

He wasn't in. The absence of the big black coat from the peg was more than enough of a clue. Gone out for something - no note, of course. But John could not even summon a whisper of irritation at this accustomed thoughtlessness. He felt too _good_. He rubbed a hand over the recurring smile he just couldn't seem to help, as he hesitated between going one way for tea or the other for the toilet and the shower. These were closer, and won out. John shambled forth and occupied the bathroom.

Once in the shower, coccooned in the stream of hot water, clean soap scent cutting through the pheromone fog, John could relax. John could think. Think organised thoughts, useful practical thoughts, thoughts about things other than _sex with Sherlock_ -

Well, hell.

No, he didn't want to get off now. Save it for - _sex with_ \- aargh! Ignore it ignore it ignore it. Practical concerns. Washing of hair. Washing of self.

Sherlock was going to tease him relentlessly about the constant blushing. Was there no way to get control of it? Oh, even if he could, there would always be some other tell. 'Pupil dilation, John.' 'Another erection, John?'

No, it was the same one he woke up with.

He laughed a little, remembering how wound up he'd got over the nature programmes. All that worry over one kiss! He'd been so afraid of getting it wrong, of getting everything wrong.

He still was. But he had to admit to himself, what they had had _not_ been ruined by a kiss. They were still - themselves.

And yet, last night, he _came in Sherlock's mouth._

He stifled a groan and had just given in at last and grabbed his aching cock when he heard Sherlock on the other side of the door.

"John?"

"What!"

"Are you masturbating?"

Sigh. Could he have said that any louder?

"Does not answering mean Yes, you are masturbating?"

 _Argh._ "Just come in, all right?" Instead of having the conversation for the benefit of Mrs Hudson and, probably, the front four tables at Speedy's.

The door opened, and a swirl of cool air came into the bathroom with Sherlock. They looked at one another through the gap in the shower curtain. Sherlock had a black shirt on and looked wickedly edible, as well as a little windblown.

"You've only just started."

John actively chose not to ask how Sherlock could tell that.

"I wasn't even meaning to. I just - " Embarrassing, but true: "I was just thinking about last night."

Sherlock did not answer but moved closer, his eyes scanning over John's wet naked self like a bright beam. John remembered ogling Sherlock in his bath and blushed.

"Where did you go?" It was lunchtime. Maybe, miracle maybe, Sherlock had got takeaway. John was starving.

"The zoo."

"What?"

John dropped his cock.

Well. That is, his cock stayed where it was, and his hand fell aside as he stared at Sherlock in dismay. "Oh god, again? What for?"

"Oh, don't _stop_." Sherlock was almost leaning into the shower curtain gap now. If he obtruded any more, he was going to get his hair wet.

"Was it the lions again?"

"Of course it was the lions again. They're mating now. I wanted to observe." On _observe_ he flexed his eyebrows impatiently in the direction of John's pelvis.

"Did you get kicked out again?"

"No I did not. John, you are not masturbating."

"No," and he turned the water off.

Sherlock pouted, but he brightened all over when John slid the curtain aside to reach for his towel. His gaze on John's body was palpable, a physical thing. A physical thing with _tentacles_. And he took up much more of the bathroom than should have been possible.

John dried his face and when he looked up, Sherlock had stepped closer and was taking up the towel to dry the rest of John. John tried to protest, but then the towel went over his head and a vigorous rumpling absorbed whatever he'd been going to say.

Then the towel was moving down his body and John watched with fascination and marvelled silently at how much Sherlock was enjoying himself. This simple, intimate task.

Of course, he'd liked doing this for Sherlock too. It was just - unexpected for Sherlock to reciprocate.

"Did you, ah…" He tried to regain his previous train of thought before it sped up and left without him. "Learn anything new? From the lions."

"Possibly." Sherlock was being very thorough, drying him all over, but not lingering anywhere either. Before John knew it he was stepping out onto the mat, his feet being enveloped one after the other. Looking down at the dark head bent to this task, John felt a surge of affection that was painful in its intensity.

"Well…?" when Sherlock stood up and looked down at him.

"You may want to get dressed," he sighed. "Mycroft is about to arrive."

John groaned. Taking the towel from Sherlock he regained a slice of dignity by wrapping it round his waist. "Oh God, why now? What does he want?"

"A picture."

John clutched his towel reflexively. _A picture? Of whom or WTF?_

Then the doorbell rang, and John turned to flee upstairs.

"The rabbit gets away from the leopard," said Sherlock, when John was halfway up, and John turned around and flipped him off, grinning. "Wanker."

When he went down again, properly dressed (though unshaven), he found Mycroft impatiently waiting at the foot of his staircase, phone in hand.

"Mycroft," John said cautiously. "What brings - "

"I'm rather pressed for time, actually, John, so if you'd be good enough to do the honours - "

"What honours?"

Then he saw the camera. A proper camera, mounted on a tripod.

"It's Mummy's birthday," said Mycroft, as though that explained everything.

"I don't see why I can't wear this shirt. I like this shirt!" complained Sherlock from the bedroom. His. _His_ bedroom.

"You know she hates it when you wear black, she says it makes you look like an undertaker. Honestly, Sherlock. You have other colours, I've seen them."

"Hateful woman!"

"One photograph a year, Sherlock. You know how it appeases her."

"It doesn't appease her, of course it doesn't _appease_ her. Nothing ever does. There's still Christmas. Every year!"

"So, by 'honours' you mean…" John gestured towards the camera.

"Pushing the button, yes," said Mycroft, "if my brother would just get on with painting himself into whatever he's got that isn't funereal."

John nodded once, then marched to Sherlock's bedroom where he stood in the doorway, looking in.

"That purple one," he said to Sherlock. "And get a move on. The sooner you get this over with the sooner we can get rid… we can get Mycroft on his way. All right?"

Sherlock was clearly caught between his desire to please John and his instinct to frustrate Mycroft. He managed to do both at the same time by putting on the chosen shirt, but very very slowly, with his eyes on John's all the while. John squirmed in silence. Out in the sitting room, Mycroft started tapping his umbrella against the hearth.

Forcing himself to turn away from exposed skin, John went to the sitting room to investigate the camera. Being alone with Mycroft was never comfortable, but today of all days John felt self-consciousness simmering and tried to keep it below the surface.

"So, the photo he's got of the two of you when you were little. Was that for your mum's birthday as well?"

"Which photo is that?" Mycroft pronounced _photo_ as though it had ornamental scare quotes.

"The one he's got in the bedroom. His bedroom, I mean. Sherlock's bedroom."

Christ. John felt as though he had fallen into a comedy sketch. Mycroft looked at him almost with pity.

"Your fattest one," said Sherlock, invading the room in his purple shirt. "The one where you're fourteen and big as a manor house. I _treasure_ it."

"Of course," Mycroft sighed. "Of course you do."

When they finally got to it, they took their pose so unconsciously that John assumed it was exactly the same every year.

"Are we properly framed?"

"Yes, yes, fine," said John, who was looking at Sherlock in the viewfinder, the straining buttons on his shirt. The way the sunlight in the room made his pupils contract and his irises look like frozen crystals about to start melting.

"Timing is essential, John," Sherlock said.

"Yes," Mycroft affirmed, "think of it as something of a planetary alignment. _Don't_ miss it."

"Three, two, one," Sherlock said, and John just barely got his finger to the button in time as the brothers slung their arms around each other's shoulders and gave the camera a pair of sunny grins.

_Flash!_

And Sherlock and Mycroft sprang away from one another as though magnetically repelled. John blinked as though the flash had gone off in his own eyes. Lingering on his retinas, a mental image from a mirror universe.

"Thank you. Mummy will no doubt be pleased," said Mycroft briskly, taking the camera from the tripod and putting all away in a little case that stood open on the coffee table.

"Feel free to get out now, Mycroft. John and I have things to do."

"Indeed," said Mycroft. "Do feed him first, Sherlock. His blood sugar would appear to be rather low for 'things'."

"I was _going_ to suggest Angelo's," Sherlock complained as soon as Mycroft had gone. "I know you're hungry, I can hear your stomach rumbling from across the room."

When John did not answer, Sherlock turned to look at him, then said, "Are you angry? Of course he'd _observe_ , John. But you must realise, Mycroft came here to get that photo instead of getting me to come to him because I've disabled all of his surveillance equipment in our flat."

John's jaw dropped open. "His…?"

"Yes, of course. He came to make sure I'd done so for - a good reason." He emphasised _good_ just enough to imply the ready existence of a bad reason.

"Ah."

They did go to Angelo's. It was closest, and when Angelo got a look at John there was a basket of garlic bread in front of him so quickly he was sure it was purloined from someone else's table. John hated being so easily read, but the bread was delicious, and it gave him something to look at for a moment. It was difficult to think properly while looking at Sherlock.

A good reason.

John's desire for privacy. John hadn't known about the surveillance equipment - though in hindsight it did seem obvious. Sherlock obviously had known about it. And, rather stunningly for Sherlock, had known how John would feel about it. Day to day life, bad enough, but _now_ \- now that they were lovers...

Blushing again.

When Angelo came back he beamed at John, "That's more like it!"

And John simply did not know whether Angelo thought he looked less peaky with a bit of bread in him, or could tell by the blush - or their body language - that this time, it really was a date.

***

They shared a bottle of wine between them. Their little candle had burnt down and all the other lunch patrons long since left by the time they stumbled out, blinking, into the sunlight. Sherlock was a terrible lightweight - but John seemed little better as they walked back along the pavement, shoulders bumping, to their flat. The world's colours seemed clear and intense to John's eyes through the light-polarising haze of alcohol. The thrummingly vivid purple of Sherlock's shirt (he hadn't changed back to the black one) peeked from inside his coat as he walked, like an iridescent breast on a big dark bird.

Back in the flat, John thought for a moment about the Talisker, but resisted the urge to spoil this glow by overdoing it. John might have been able to weather one more drink - maybe! - but he seriously doubted Sherlock could.

He didn't want a hilarious drinking story. He wanted Sherlock.

Sherlock turned from hanging up his coat and gave John the kind of smile he'd been fantasising about since he woke up.

John locked the door to keep Mrs Hudson out.

"So what _did_ you learn at the zoo today?" Because he hadn't dared bring it up at the restaurant. It was a subject not to be interrupted by other people.

"To ask you what you want."

"Want?" It was unexpected, it threw John off his footing. "What - besides you?"

"Well. What would you have of me?" Sherlock seemed to enjoy whatever effect his words were having on John's face. "You told me last night that I could talk so long as I was telling you what I want. What about you? What do _you_ want?"

How did you learn THIS at the zoo, John was wondering.

Why can't you deduce it so I don't have to say it, he thought.

He looked up at Sherlock, then away. Licked his lips. Looked up again and opened his mouth to speak. But closed it again.

Felt himself turning red.

And at last, to his simultaneous embarrassment and relief, he saw Sherlock _understand_. Sherlock even made that face, that _Eureka_ face, eyes and mouth wide and round as a cartoon.

"Ohh! You want to - "

John stopped him. "Don't _talk_ about it." And it had nothing to do with surveillance equipment, just his own burning ears. "Just come upstairs with me and - get on with it."

The bluntest, clumsiest possible come-on, and exactly the right language to use with Sherlock.

John did manage to remember the lube and condoms he'd brought down to Sherlock's room. He went to get them, detoured to the bathroom. Heart pounding. There was still a bit of an alcohol haze over everything, but the push of adrenaline sharpened what was underneath.

Anticipation. Lust. Fear.

Excitement.

He went up to his bedroom to find Sherlock sitting on the bed, slowly unbuttoning that purple shirt. John put his practical prizes down and went to Sherlock to help pull the shirt off him. Then he leaned down to the back of Sherlock's neck. That inviting nape just below the dark curls. Warm and yielding to John's teeth. The scent of his hair and the taste of his skin filling John's whole world.

Sherlock wasn't expecting that now, and the effect was everything John could have hoped for and more. He gasped, his back arching, and his big dark pupils stared at John, mirroring amazement.

"Do that again?" Lips parted. Was he panting? He was.

For answer John tugged at Sherlock's hair till he bent his head forward, submissively presenting that shapely neck. John could see the marks of his own teeth on it, though they were fading already.

He fitted his mouth to the same place, his teeth to the same marks, and bit a little harder.

Why, why had it taken him so long to do this? Sherlock had been asking for it by name, over and over. His big hands dug into the bed to either side of him. His breath shuddered and stuttered and could not seem to decide whether it was going in or out. He was as helpless as a scruffed cat.

When John finally released him Sherlock straightened up with a long gasp, turning starry eyes/bitten lips/flushed face towards John. He swallowed, then said,

"I'd... do anything for that, John. God, _anything_."

"That's good to know." John's voice came out of him in a low growl. Then he pulled his jumper over his head and continued stripping with grim efficiency. Sherlock took off shoes, socks, trousers, pants, but did not seem to feel as free to drape himself across John's bed as he had his own. Not sure of his territory, perhaps.

John saw him hesitate when looking at the lube, the condoms. The worried little wrinkle between Sherlock's eyebrows seemed to ease John's own anxiety just a little.

He pulled Sherlock close and kissed his mouth and felt Sherlock's skin all along his skin - shivering, self-aware.

"I _know_ you did research," and then John laughed. "You did half of it on my laptop and didn't clear out the browser history. Here, I'll help you." He took up the bottle of lube and flipped open the cap.

Sherlock watched wide eyed as John poured lube out onto his fingers. John hadn't done this for himself before, but he'd certainly given his share of prostate exams. Not, perhaps, the most appetising of thoughts, but it was not incomprehensible territory. He lay back, spread his legs, reached down. He turned his flushed face aside as he felt and pushed a finger in. To his finger: Heat. To his arse: Invasion.

He gasped a little, but the sound Sherlock made was louder, and when John's eyes flicked to his face, saw an expression there as though Sherlock were the one being probed. His gaze was fixed on John's fingers and though it was even more intensely embarrassing than he'd feared, the lustful fixation he beheld was worth it. Ten times over. John closed his eyes and moaned a little.

"I want to do that," Sherlock's voice startled him with its nearness. He had crept closer and was nearly hanging over John.

John blinked at him, and pushed the bottle of lube toward Sherlock. His finger slid out, and Sherlock's, well lubed, slid in, and John groaned because it was so very different. Sherlock's fingers were for one thing considerably bigger than his - but it was not only that. It wasn't his, he wasn't controlling it - it was Sherlock's and Sherlock was in charge of it. The heat, the motion, the stretching were all out of John's control.

"Oh fuck," he whispered. "Jesus fuck. Don't stop!"

 _"John,"_ said Sherlock in a voice hushed with awe.

"Don't stop," John insisted, pushing back impatiently, then crying out, "Jesus, Sherlock!" as one finger became two, burning stretch in his arse, and his cock throbbed, precome welling up. Through his lashes he could see Sherlock staring down at him wide eyed, panting as hard as when John bit the back of his neck.

Then John lost sight of Sherlock's face as he bent his head -

"Ohh," he groaned as the wet heat of Sherlock's tongue made contact, swiping along the shaft where the bead of moisture had dripped down and swirling up over the head. And his fingers slid deep into John. "Yes," he said, helpless as though there were really such a thing as truth serum, "that's good, God yes, now fuck me with them, in and out, like that," panting and no longer caring how he sounded, how he looked, what it meant. The phrase _fuck me_ was something his mouth could say and mean. Who knew?

He didn't turn his face aside anymore, either. Sherlock had lifted his head to watch John's responses and their eyes met, held.

"It's you," said John, apropos of nothing. "It's just you."

"John," Sherlock said again, and it was heavy with meaning.

"That's enough," said John. "Come on now." He was hot all over, aching to come, but ravenous for more than that. "Hurry."

But Sherlock was not focussing on him, not falling on him. He was worried again, poking at a wrapped condom. "I have no idea how to put…"

"Oh Jesus," John shoved up on his elbow and reached for it, "of course you don't, give it, let me," feverish, fingers fumbling but finally producing a condom, "give me that," the lube, and he was so impatient that he didn't think to ask before coating his hand liberally and wrapping it around Sherlock's shaft as though it were his own. He stroked lube over it and Sherlock hissed in his breath, going still, wide eyed.

John thought, _what have I done_ , and started to apologise for just grabbing him like that, unannounced and unasked - but Sherlock just shuddered all over and complained, "It's cold!"

"Poor baby," laughed John breathlessly. "Here now," and holding it in place, unrolled the condom. Sherlock watched this process with mystified fascination as though it were happening to someone else's penis.

"All right?" said John.

"That feels strange," Sherlock said in a hushed voice.

"Well it shouldn't seem so cold now," slathering on another coat of lube. "Now lie down."

His intention, he'd thought, had been to be in control of it. But as he straddled Sherlock, and Sherlock looked up at him, he knew it was also a way of not feeling quite so much the lioness.

It was stupid, he knew it. And yet it mattered.

"How do I…?" said Sherlock.

"I'll do it."

Sherlock looked relieved to be told what to do. John could appreciate the feeling.

He reached back. Got hold of Sherlock and moved himself to what seemed the right angle.

It wasn't that John didn't want to be the one to do this to Sherlock. He did, of course he did. But he needed to know what it was like, what, in short, he would actually be doing _to_ Sherlock.

Fingers had been really promising. Spectacular actually. But this was something else.

He took a deep breath in, and slowly let it out as he leaned back and let gravity help.

Sherlock made a sound that was much, much higher than his usual vocal range.

John barely heard it over the overwhelming cacophony of sensations in his own body. There was an instant of panic that he had seriously overreached himself. Fingers were good but this was something so much bigger and -

He gasped and went tense and sweat stood out on his body, and he was teetering on the edge of aborting this mission when Sherlock's hands were on him, diverting his attention, confusing his nervous system as he sank down on Sherlock's cock. Both longer and bigger around than it had seemed in his hand or in his mouth - and that thought was another diversion.

"oh God," was what came out of his mouth, strangled and distorted, but not a 'Stop'. He could say it any moment, he knew. He would be obeyed. If he said he would never do this, Sherlock would accept that. John didn't even have to think about this. It was obvious to him. It was John who told him where the limits were. He did it all the time.

But he didn't want to set this limit. He didn't want to miss out. Even if he didn't really like it he still -

He said "oh God" again, but in a completely different tone. He found himself staring down at Sherlock, feeling his eyes wide, his teeth gritted, his hands curled into fists - and then one deep breath changed everything around. Like he'd been struck and knocked down. His eyes slid shut and his head tipped back and his hands opened.

Yes.

This.

"John," Sherlock said, and John's head tipped forward. Sherlock's face was hard to read, but his body wasn't. His body was restless under John's and throbbing inside him.

"Fuck me now," John said. "Lion thing."

He couldn't decide later if 'lion thing' was a dumb joke or a filthy endearment. Both, probably. But it worked on Sherlock like a lioness' scent and display worked on a lion. Once the lion caught that scent, she had him. Over and over and over.

The sound of Sherlock's voice, incoherent moaning and snarling as he rutted up into John, incredible, a sex music that transmitted itself deep into the center of John's most primitive brain. The imprint of his big fingers on John's hips and then under his thighs as he lifted John up to fuck into him from below, harder, harder. John found himself whispering, chanting, _harder, harder._

God damn it was glorious, it was fucking glorious. The violence of it was perfect. Sherlock belonged to him utterly.

And it didn't matter, wouldn't have mattered if he had been down on his face with his arse in the air, he was still in control until the exact moment, the very instant that he didn't want to be in control anymore.

It was not, he understood now, a question of who _had_ to be the lioness. It was a question of who _got_ to be the lioness. This role was not assigned by nature. They were filthy apes and they could do whatever they bloody well liked.

Sherlock was going to _demand_ his turn, of course. How far might he go, what daft scheme…? Another exciting thought to ramp up this aching frenzy that had built between them.

He could come at any moment. It only needed a little push. One little nudge of a trigger. He reached down to finish it and found Sherlock's hand colliding with his, joining his. Urging him on. Bringing it to ignition, explosion. "God!" His cock erupted, stinging-hot drops striking his skin, Sherlock's skin, and Sherlock's mouth was making that perfect O of revelation. Under him Sherlock bowed up, breath caught, back arching, seeking his way as deep as he could reach as he came. The throbbing of it was a distant echo of a pulse inside John. He could feel it. He could count that pulse, if he wanted to. Secret data, another priceless treasure for his own humble-seeming Mind Cabin to contain.

Afterwards, Sherlock had to be instructed in condom disposal. But it was worth it, John felt. Nobody had to be subjected to a wet spot in the bed. Somebody had an easier time cleaning up. And, he suspected the condom had helped Sherlock last a lot longer than might have been otherwise expected.

He was going to be feeling it later. He was in fact feeling it now. But though he ached, John liked the ache, savoured it. His body was not eager to give up what it had been enjoying. In the days after, whenever he moved or sat, a blush of self-conscious satisfaction warmed his face. When he looked up, he knew he would find Sherlock watching him. Wheels turning in that enormous brain, interlocking gears clicking away, hot on the case of how to get John to fuck him silly.

And John enjoyed it. Oh yes, he enjoyed the hell out of it now. What had started as a baffling series of nature programmes had evolved into a grand game of Come and Get Me. In the end, it was as inevitable as Nature.

It was _good_ to be the king.

**Author's Note:**

> You should picture Andrew as being played by [Tom Lenk](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tom_Lenk), who played Andrew* on Buffy the Vampire Slayer, and stole the show in 2012's Much Ado About Nothing. The idea of him is thanks to mycapeisplaid and TSylvestris, who supplied many of the inappropriate questions that Sherlock is the Dark Lord of as well as the idea of the guy at the zoo being a secret furry.
> 
> My vision of Sherlock and Mycroft being magnetically repelled was inspired by ["Sherlock's Brohugs"](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/10351049525/they-both-strike-my-fancy-they-slapped-the-shit) by [reapersun](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/). I know I mention her a lot. The other two artists whose tumblr I check every single day - [flyingrotten](http://flyingrotten.tumblr.com/), known for her adorable and heartwrenching were!John comics, and [navydream](http://navydream.tumblr.com/), whose Sandman/Sherlock crossover comic thrills me to little bits. 
> 
>  
> 
> * I couldn't bear to change his name. :)

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [[Podfic] It's Good To Be The King](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1376746) by [AxeMeAboutAxinomancy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy/pseuds/AxeMeAboutAxinomancy)




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